


Papa's Papillon

by Bunnillusion



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 18:22:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4489977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnillusion/pseuds/Bunnillusion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Papa always loved you.</p><p>So why is he leaving now?</p><p>He still loves you, right?</p><p>(Father! France x Child! Reader)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Asleep

      _Asleep._

* * *

 

 

      “Papa! Papa look! A butterfly!” You scrambled after the stain-glassed creature, as if it were a new plaything.

       “ _Non, mon chère_ , in my house we call this one a  _papillon_.” You giggled and repeated the word, trying to roll the l’s as Papa has done. You liked it when Papa spoke of his “home.” His eyes glistened with unwanton pride and the rims darkened with worry in a black hue. To him, it seemed, his house was a second child, strong in stature, but weak in will.  
  
       “Papa?”  
  
       “Yes,  _chère papillon_?” You laughed at the new nickname he called you. Papa always came up with a silly nickname for you. Your thoughts wandered. How can you, a lumbering, clumsy child ever be as feathered and beautiful as the butterfly you just saw? You shook your head and straightened your wandering thoughts, determined to ask the question long-conceived.  
  
       “Papa, how come I can never come to your house? It sounds very pretty, but you never show it to me!” You studied his expression and widened your eyes; you have never seen such feelings in Papa before. His content and nostalgic gaze became one of pain and loss; fear, even. In that instant, it looked like Papa had aged many centuries and wanted to stop his eyes from seeing any longer.  
  
       That moment of silence lengthened into minutes and soon Mother Nature resumed its chorus, reverberating through the field that Papa had taken you to, saying that it looked “just like the fields in his home.”   
  
       “Papa?” You asked, drawing his attention again, his aged eyes looked into yours and for a moment you thought you saw the lives of many pass through your memory, from birth, adolescence, to death. You looked away, unable to see more.   
  
       “ _Mon chère_ , when you are older, you will understand, but to come to- Papa’s home; it is a  _péché_ , a mistake. It is one I can never forgive myself for.”  
  
       You couldn’t understand, of course you couldn’t! Here is Papa with strange eyes and a serious tone. It seemed as if he was an unworldly being, unfit for this earth. However, your mind could not wrap such matters and you continued to beg, “But Papa! I want to go to your house with you! Even Mama hasn’t gone yet!"  
  
       Tears began to bubble and your nose was stinging. You have never heard Papa sound so sad! It felt so unnatural and you were lost in what to do.  
  
       Of course, Papa thought it was tears from the rejection and he tried to compromise in a panicked voice, “Don’t cry,  _Papillon_! Let Papa think! Um, how old are you?”  
  
       “Six!” You cried, wondering how this would end, “And three months!”  
  
       “Then, when the time comes, it won’t take long, I will let you come into my house, but only if I think you’re ready! Okay, is that better?”  
  
       “Okay!” You were excited, this almost seemed like another adventure Papa would take you on!  
  
       “But-” He spoke, voice detached of emotion, “You must be warned that my house is dangerous. It’s not meant for people like you.”   
  
       You didn’t catch the hidden meaning behind these words, only concentrating on the unnatural tone of his voice. He spoke like an important person, like a king talking to his people. But he also sounded very melancholy, as if he was foreseeing the outcome and it was another unhappy ending.  
  
       You couldn’t follow the mystery behind Papa and you answered with a cheerful, “Okay!”  
  
       Papa’s face lifted and his eyes resumed the beautiful azure shade they were before. He tossed his golden locks to the wind and looked at you, smiling, “Now,  _Papillon_ , shall I show you the roses?”  
  
       The days continued like this, begging to go to his house and him brushing it off as “you’re not ready” and so you continued to live in this safe haven of sunlight and wondrous stories of his home.   
  
       Of course, as all things end, so this unusual fantasy did too, shattering all from a single phone call to Papa.

[ ](http://rbsrdesigns.deviantart.com/art/Divider-I-189956282)

       One year. That was all it took from the happy home you lived in, to a poisonous war zone between both parents. It all started with a single argument, Mama didn’t want Papa to go to the World Meeting and soon that fight became evident in the tension, Papa no longer gave the beautiful smiles or even brought up his home that he loved so much.  
  
       One night, over plates of dinner, Mama suddenly snapped, “Eight years? That’s ridiculous!”  
  
       “ _Mon amour_ , I can not take you and her with me to the meet-”  
  
       “To hell with your meetings! You have a child to care of!"  
  
       “Who is mortal. You are too. Please, I beg you dear, listen. I can’t bring mortals there! You don’t understand the heartbreak of-”  
  
       “I always knew you would leave! But, your daughter- she’s only seven.”  
  
       “I warned you to not fall-”  
  
       “Papa are you leaving?” You spoke up, unwilling to let the fight go any longer. Silence fell around the table and it was more devastating than the noise. Soft sobs from Mama was the music of the table and Papa looked away from you.  
  
       “Papa, you can’t leave, right? You love Mama and me, right? So even if you leave it won’t be for a long-”  
  
       “ _Papillon_ , please. Go to your room. Okay?”  
  
       “But Papa-”  
  
       Mama spoke up, “Just shut up and go to your room!” It was the first time you heard Mama yell at all. To make it worse, she was yelling at you. You felt a little shatter go through your heart. You felt betrayed and obediently scurried out the room as a disapproving retort from Papa was heard.  
  
       You shuffled from the bed, tears already coming through your eyelids, but you held firm, hiding your tears. After all, Papa said that being happy was the best thing you can have.  
  
       Even past midnight, you devoted all energy to keep the tears at bay, wanting the days where Papa took you on the meadows and let you put flower crowns on his golden locks. When the burning tears and choked throat subsided, you began to think of a story Papa once told.  
  


       “ _When you’re sad, just remember that bad things happens so that the beauty underneath can shine out.” Papa was lying down on the meadows as he said this with his eyes fastened on your hands. You didn’t understand these words and continued on looping the stems together._  


_“Like a caterpillar,” He continued, gazing at your chubby fingers, “It gets trapped in a cocoon and yet, when it wriggles out, it becomes the beautiful butterfly- like you.” You said nothing and eased the delicate chain on your own head. You laughed in delight when the crown fit perfectly._

_“Like a dear Papillon.”_

       You fished out the frumpy little doll for comfort. It was a funny little thing with blonde hair and thick eyebrows. Papa gave it to you saying that it reminded him of an old friend, regardless, its name became Mr. Grouchybrows.  
  
       “Mr. Grouchybrows, why does Papa have to leave? He can just stay here with Mama and me, right?  
  
       “Stop thinking too much! Goodness, even your blockheaded father doesn’t have a brain, I don’t see why you should!” You giggled at his sharp retorts.  
  
       “But Mr. Grouchybrows! Papa loves me right?”  
  
       “Of course, you imbecilic twit! I bet the real question is if he knows that you love him.”  
  
       You tried thinking back to when you last said “I love you,” but you just couldn’t. The countless words he tried to teach you also were forgotten, leaving only your nickname,  _Papillon_. Butterfly.  
  
       “B-but what if Papa leaves without knowing that I love him?” You began to panic thinking of the farwell. You’ve never had anyone leave in your life, Papa and Mama were the only ones you’d ever need so why was Papa leaving?  
  
       “Well, you’d better go after him before he leaves! Goodness and I thought you had a brain.”  
  
       “Thank you Mr. Grouchybrows!” And with Mr. Grouchybrows in hand you rushed to Papa and Mama’s room as fast as you could in the warm pajamas.  
  
       “Papa! Papa! Wake up, I-” The door was open showing the lying figure of Mama without Papa at all.  
  
       “Papa! Papa!” You ran through the house, searching frantically for Papa.  
  
       Nothing. Where was Papa?  
  
       The entrance door was open, leaving only the slightest trace that Papa was there.  
  
       “Papa!” You ran out the door, cold air greeting you. And there you saw Papa standing outside. A hat covering his eyes and a suitcase in his hands.  
  
       “Papa…” The tears sprung out. How can you be happy when Papa will leave you?  
  
       “Please don’t leave…” Papa said nothing and knelt down to put you in a hug. Nothing was said.  
  
       “ _Papillon_ , Papa won’t be gone for long, okay? It’ll only take ten days and then I’ll be back.”   
  
       You wiped your tears away, “Promise?”  
  
       He looked away and then continued to keep his gaze away from you.  
  
       “Promise.”  
  
       “Papa, at the end of ten days I’ll come out and bring crowns, okay? One for you and one for me.”  
  
       “Okay.”  
  
       “And Papa?”  
  
       “Yes?”  
  
       “I love you, Papa. I wanted to tell you.”  
  
       “O-okay.” And with a sudden drop, he let go of you and walked swiftly to the car.  
  
       “Papa will come back.” You said to Mr. Grouchybrows, “He will come back and we can all be happy again. And Papa never,  **ever**  breaks promises.”


	2. Struggling

The ten days that followed after Papa left was a strenuous battle in defending his honour.

 

“Mama! Don’t throw away Papa’s paintings! He loved them! And- And he’ll be mad if he comes home!”

 

“Dear, it’ll be worth more on the market.” You didn’t like mom’s nicknames at all. “Dear” and “sweetie” sounded more-so a sugar-coated threat than an endearment. _Papillon_ was a thing of beauty to behold and love, just like the paintings Papa brought home. Mama’s words seemed as if you were a dear, raised to be eaten then hunted for flesh.

 

“B-But Papa said-”

 

“To Hell what he says! That ma- that Monster is better to be with people with himself! He’s a sorry excuse as a “god”- pah! He’s less worthy of his own people than he is a father!” Mama often got mad. That was never a rarity, but to see her talking about Papa like that was so… wrong. Where were the “I love you's" that they often whispered to each other? Why was Mama acting so strangely now? Why was she acting like Papa left them forever?

 

“Papa said he'd be back in ten days.”

 

     Silence dropped like a stone in the water and for the first time, cold silence strained against the tides of emotion. All was still until Mama sighed and straightened her back, face creased with worry-lines and age.

 

She turned her eyes at you and immediately you wilted in fear. “Does a man like Pa- no, -Francis ever keep his words?”

 

“But… But…” You curled your lax palms into fists. No. Papa keeps his promise. Papa always keeps his promises. Right?

 

“Papa loves us!” The words came out more like an indignant war cry. It’s not fair! Papa never did anything to hurt us, right? So why? Why did Mama act as if Papa hated us. Like, Papa… left us?

 

You crumpled to the floor, angry tears and mucus burning your sinuses. Mama never loved Papa… Mama never loved you. Complex thoughts- far more complex for a child to think- were winding down from you like a vortex. Self-pity and betrayal were interlacing your mind in overwhelming knots. However, you said you love Papa and Papa loves you too. He said so. Papa never lies.

 

“Love?” Mama scoffed, “Love? Did something like that even exist in his mind? Listen, darling,”

 

Another nickname.

 

“Did Papa ever leave us before?”

 

 _No_.

 

“He’s a liar!”

 

 _No_.

 

“He betrayed us!”

 

 _Stop_.

 

“He lied to us!”

 

 **Stop**.

 

“Stop!” You screamed; it was the first time you ever had to scream at someone. Papa told you to never scream. It was unladylike. But, what would Papa do if Mama acted like this?

 

“Papa! Papa would never do that! Papa is brave and strong! He’d nev-”

 _Slap_!

You stopped screeching from the pain stinging your face. Mama often got mad, but she never believed to resort in violence, then why did she- no, if Mama would never do that, but then why now? Why did your cheek hurt so much? Why would Mama ever do such a thing? If Mama believed in peace, why would she hit you now? What made things so different?

 

You looked at Mama in fear, clutching your cheek in both hands. Her eyes seemed almost as bewildered as you were, and when you looked at her eyes you could not see the eyes of your strong mother, but saw the eyes of a tortured soul, wearied by emotion and self-pity.

 

“Mama… Why?”

 

She wasn’t looking at you, instead chose to ignore you and unhinge the painting. With clipped steps and cold eyes, she left the room with paintings in hand. Cutting, clear, calculating. Feelings drained.

 

“Mama…” Tears fell from soulless eyes. But it was not tears of sadness. Why? The questions scurried through your mind like a hurried station, a great rat race in which you were standing in the middle of. You were so confused; so lost, but there was only question that reappeared so often where you have no answer.

 

“Why?”

 

* * *

 After that day, Mama never fully regained her smile, she never tried to talk with you anymore, and even the days after, she purposefully continued to neglect you. It was as if to avoid conflict, but how could you know? A child is supposed to be cared by their mother. It was painful to think that you lost both parents that day. Papa never would do that to you, but it seems that now you lost both Mommy and Papa because of him. The awkwardness remained between Mama and you, but still both tried to help mend the relationship the best you could.

 

And with each passing day, you slowly forgot about Papa. Little by little, it became harder to hear Papa’s laugh and see his blue eyes that you loved. Even with fading stories and the absence of his presence, you still continued to treasure all of his belongings left, even if it strained the relationship with Mama.

 

“Ma- Mommy! Don’t take away Mr. Grouchybrows away! He’s the only toy I have!”

 

“Hmph, it’s pretty ugly though. And worn out. We need to trash it.”

 

“But- But!”

 

“Francis gave it to you?” You stared at the floor, clammed up- shamed that you have nothing left to say in his defence. Mama didn’t want to hear about Papa, she becomes more intolerant, more cold.

 

_“Mr. Grouchybrows? I wish I can play with you and Papa like this forever!”_

 

A promise made long before popped in your mind and chose to be heard at the wrong time. Papa was gone and now Mr. Grouchybrows? How many promises will be broken? How many more forgotten?

 

_“Haha! I doubt it! When you grow old, I bet you that I’ll be tossed out like every other toy. But don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you.” His voice was unusually soft, losing its iron spite. It felt weird, but you knew he had grown forlorn over such a thing._

 

_“No I won’t!” You stood up, hands grasping the doll; face sketched with the childish belief of self._

 

Mommy clenched the doll away from your grip and you watched in horror she callously threw it aside. Falling, falling;

_“I won’t ever leave you!”_

 

he fell down to the paper box,

 

_“We can play forever with Mama and Papa and me!”_

 

-and just for a moment you felt that you could see him faintly whispering silent goodbye’s.

 

_“I promise!”_

 

Those final words echoed through, like a music box, trilling those lonely lies.

 

_“I promise!”_

 

_“I promise…”_

 

_“I promi-...”_

 

With a final _twang_! you snapped out of your daydream, terrified of promises. How can one tell if you were lying or not? Did Papa lie- no, Papa loves you. But… What if he was lying about loving you too?

 

“Dear, it’s just a doll. I’ll get you a new-.” Mommy stopped her offer when she saw the tears slivering down your cheeks. It was becoming a daily occurrence for you to cry everyday and with each tear you tried to hold back, her hate for Francis grew.

 

“Don’t cry. Hush, hush.” Mommy patted your back and you felt like her fingers pulsed ice through your blood. It wasn’t like Mommy to touch you or even bother talking to you for that manner, “‘Try to understand. Papa just left so we have to.. be resourceful, okay? Try helping Mama by being a good girl.”

 

Reluctantly, you nodded in the slightest and Momma immediately stood up, carrying the box with her. You closed your eyes and prayed that Mr. Grouchybrows would be happy wherever he went. Maybe Mama would give him to another child? And maybe Mama can take you to let you play with him aga-.

 

“Now, let’s throw this away in the trash, yes?” She touched your cheek for the last time and walked away, each step causing you to flinch.

 

_“I’m sorry, Mr. Grouchybrows.”_

* * *

 

It was dark when you went out of the house. Usually Papa would tell you stories or Mr. Grouchybrows would talk to you until you fell asleep, but- Papa’s… Papa isn’t here and Mr. Grouchybrows is in the trash. So, you carefully pushed the door, ever-so-slightly, until the door was wide enough for you to pass. A low groaning noise echoed from the boards of your house. What was that? Was that Papa? A monster? Or was it simply just the board. Heart racing; you wanted to run back to your room, what if it was a monster? There was no Papa to save you. How? The creak wasn’t loud, but the silence was so still, so pristine, that it seemed that even the tiniest noise could draw Mom down.

 

You were about to turn back when you spot the cardboard box sitting atop your welcoming mat. you snatched the first item on the top, hopefully Mr. Grouchybrows, and scurried up the stairs, adrenaline rushing through your head as you pictured a grotesque being standing in front of you with a bloodless face.

 

You looked at your stolen prize, excitement and triumph flushing out the horror and assonant heartbeats that reigned just seconds ago. However, you felt that something was wrong the moment you really touched it. Mr. Grouchybrows felt the same way as this object, but… smaller. With sinking hope, you uncurl your fingers to see that horrific sight. All that lay in your hands was the cotton stuffings of a doll with a woollen skin his head. You hastily try stuffing the cotton through the tear on his unraveling neck.

 

No.

 

“Mommy… Why?” The tears were let out before you even noticed. The woolen doll Papa spent hours making, the same doll you spent countless conversations and tea parties with, the doll who was your only friend; gone all because of one tiny snip. It’s funny how things break so easily when you treat them improperly.

 

“Mr. Grouchybrows… I’m sorry. I couldn’t keep my promise at all.” You sobbed, not caring if Mommy saw you like this, “We were going to play together forever, but-”

 

You wiped your nose with the sleeve of your pajamas, “I’m sorry! It was all my fault!”

 

With that outburst, you sunk to the sheets and cried, clutching Mr. Grouchybrows’ corpse as if it were your only lifeline. It could have just been you, but you also thought that maybe Papa was crying too.

 

* * *

 

The next morning was a day that made you excited. It was the tenth day! Papa can come home now! You jumped out from the bed to catch a glimpse at your window, but the mundane and monotonous view remained the same.

 

“Mommy! Mamma! It’s the tenth day! It’s the tenth day!” you clambered over to Mama and Papa’s room, forgetting all about Mr. Grouchybrows and his current pitiful state, “C’mon we have to go out to meet him or he’d be really sad! We have to get him crowns and his paintings… and we have to hug him like when we used to!”

 

“Ah, just shut up about your stupid “Papa” for once!” You flinched at her harsh tone and instinctively retreated out the front door towards the meadows that Papa once loved. Mama was never happy in the morning, but maybe she’ll feel better when Papa comes home. You sprinted out the door towards the meadows where Papa and you picnicked often. Though Mr. Grouchybrows’ promise was broken, you were determined not to break Papa’s.

 

So you hop around the wildflowers, looking for flowers worthy enough to adorn Papa’s head. You felt like a stranger, however, skipping around someone’s house, so you stop and walk respectfully as means to avoid further damage. The butterflies fluttered among others and you felt tempted to join them in the intricate dance, but each step you took stumbled behind their wings and you stopped, ashamed at the fallen petals and grass you crushed.

 

“Laugh and be merry, Papillon! It is better to be joyous and unashamed than to hide and regret!”

 

“But, Papa!’ You bustled, “What if others laugh at you?”

 

He smiled a shameless grin and danced in teetering circles, “What are others to you than a mere audience? People must find true happiness with themselves so dance! Sing! Be glad that the world was made and smile!”

 

So together you danced the day away, singing choruses of scrambled noises, forgetting that you were merely an understudy to the grand stage of the world.

 

Humming a nonsensical tune, you continued to pick flowers, choosing only the ones you knew Papa would love. Along the bright yellow daffodils, a patch of roses stooped. It looked strange, hissing against the sunlight and hunched like a witch overseeing a cauldron. However you remember Papa’s long speech of the love roses hold for others and you pull the flowers by the stem, wincing when the thorns pierced your soft flesh.

 

Normally, you’d avoid roses for their stings, but you endured. Papa would be happy and shocked too, to see his favourite flowers in a crown. He’d pat you on the head and Mama will be happy again. And so you pulled, blood dripping and curdling around your chubby hands, until the baskets were filled with blood-stained roses.

 

Papa will be happy.

 

However, Mama wasn’t pleased when you came to the porch, pajamas muddied and soaked with sweat patches, hands cut from multiple wounds, and a smile plastered on your face.

 

“Darling! What happened? Did you fall? I was so worried! Don’t leave without telling Mama! Okay?”

 

“O-Okay!” You panted from the sprint back home. Papa will be here any minute! You have to prepare the crowns!

 

With stumbling hands, you bent and twisted the stems, blood still leaking off the wounds, slipping the knots and staining the petals.

 

“Dear, wash up and put a band-aid on the cuts! Your filthy and the cuts must hurt so much!”

 

“No Mama! I have to finish these before Papa gets here! I promised him!”

 

“Oh…” Mama stiffened, looking at the bloodied crowns and the caught tears of your eyes. She hated when you did something for Papa. When will you realise that he won’t come back? But still she resigned to let you finish, since he still is your father, whether she liked it or not, “Well then, when your done, take a shower and eat breakfast. Papa wouldn’t like to see you all smelly right?”

 

With forced steps, Mama left you to your duties of weaving, the thorns still piercing as you try to create.

 

Papa will come. Papa will be happy. Papa isn’t leaving. You repeated each sentence as a ward to keep all doubts at bay because surely Papa won’t break his promise… Right?

 

With the Sun dipping down the arch, the sentences stop repeating. The crowns, shrivelled and caked in dried blood, continued to droop downwards along with your mood.

 

You wore your best dress and a ribbon; your hands cleaned and bandaged. Meals grew cold, uneaten as you waited for Papa to come.

 

Papa will come. Papa will be happy. You repeated the words over and over because Papa can’t break promises. He won’t break his promises. At least you hope so.

 

The Sun was long set and the chill of the night cut through the sleeves of your dress so that Papa will still come home and see you. Mama told you not to wait, but still, you sat at the porch waiting.

 

Papa will come. Right?

 

The next morning, Mama was setting a blanket and a bowl of soup next to your curled body, cursing the name of Francis Bonnefoy. Even if she told you that he’d never come back, there was still a small flame of hope that he would still come. At least for you.

 

“Mama…” You muttered still drowsy from the cold, “Papa broke his promise.”

 

“He never came…

 

Mama saw tears streak your face and she wiped them away.

 

“-He promised. Papa promised. Papa…

 

Mama caressed your forehead and felt a heated fever.

 

“-Papa never broke his promises.

 

Mama kissed your head and held you close, tears still being held back.

 

“-Papa said ten days!”

 

You felt tears on your head, Mama was crying to. Papa didn’t come back, right? Papa loved you, right? Papa promised, right? So… Why? Why did he not come?

 

“I… I hate you, Papa!” You screamed, breaking free from Mama’s hold, crushing the flower crowns under your foot. Tears finally flowed free, mucus coating your face and Mama still crying.

 

“Papa… Papa, why?”

 

The soup bowl capsized.

 

“Why did you lie?”

 

The thorns pierced your foot. Tears fell.

 

_“I hate you!!”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens...
> 
>  
> 
> (2775 words,4 pages)

**Author's Note:**

> It must be tough to be immortal. Seeing people die within a blink of the eye. Falling in love with someone who doesn't understand.
> 
> I wrote based on this musing so it may seem a bit more philosophical than anything XD
> 
> (2775 words, 4 pages)


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